


It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Christmas, Modern Era, Other, d'Artagnan and Aramis are less prominant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-13 04:07:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12975522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: for Canadiangarrison who prompted: would love to see a Xmas fic with the 4 guys all together some poly way, where something goes really wrong for one and the others band together to help fix it and save Xmas. Or possibly each of them has a crisis. But again they all save each other and it’s all full of love and presents and such. :)





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CanadianGarrison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianGarrison/gifts).



> I have not reread this or edited it or anything and i cannot be arsed to soz. I will prob reread it at some point and fix things. If you notice anything feel free to point out in the comments, I do not promise to fix it but you know. You can point it out :)
> 
> Also- I KNOW there are a lot of Maries. I DID NOT CHOOSE THIS. they are in the seris. They have ONE NAME. come on imaginative musketeers writers.

Athos is surprised when he turns the calendar from November to December and finds almost every square already filled out, the notes section scrawling and busy. About a month after d’Artagnan moved in Athos instigated ‘everyone write in a different colour so in the case of arguments over who the hell put that they are going to their mother’s on my birthday I think not! or similar can be properly evidenced’. Now they all just argue on the calendar. Porthos’s carefully neat purple is dominant, this month, littered with smiley faces and star stickers he gives to his students. He gives them out a lot, he has to replenish stocks often even though he buys them in bulk. Aramis’s messy green is there, too, d’Artagnan’s blue mostly absent. Athos can’t read any of it without his glasses but he’s pretty sure that most of Porthos’s entries will be things like Christmas markets, time put aside for gift shopping, visits to family, tree decorating. Aramis’s entries are probably reminders for food shopping while the supermarkets are stocked with things like stollen and pfeffernusse, he likes those things, and maybe a couple of carol services and church things, Advent services and probably one or two talks or workshops on finding meaning in the bible, being queer and religious at Christmas, and community things like dinners. He runs at least half of them, always pushing his parish to welcome new comers, include the LGBT+ and refugee communities, assylum seekers who live around, things like that. He’s always looking for institutions he can campaign against, people who need an advocate, places he can help, and his efforts just redouble around Christmas time. Athos feels a sharp tug of annoyance that the calendar around Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah were not similarly full and busy. When he puts his glasses on he can see Porthos has meticulously drawn a menorah in each square of Hanukkah dates, showing the number of candles lit.

“What are you doing?” Porthos asks, idling in, feet shoved in slippers, still in his pyjamas. It’s after five but it’s Saturday Porthos rarely gets dressed on a Saturday.

“The month hasn’t even started and already it seems you have us busy beyond any reason,” Athos says.

“Yeah,” Porthos says, coming over to wrap around Athos, lifting him off the floor and nuzzling into the juncture between his neck and shoulder. “You’re warm. How was work?”

“Put me down I’m not your hot water bottle,” Athos protests, but not too hard he doesn’t actually mind that much being lugged about like a teddy bear. “Work was long.”

Porthos sets off back to the livingroom, Athos firmly held and toted with him. Halfway there Porthos remembers he was after snacks and turns to go back into the kitchen but Athos draws the line and demands to be put down. He goes to the livingroom under his own steam. Aramis is lying on the couch, head and arm half-off long legs up on the sofa back, he grins an upside down grin at Athos.

“Oh you’re not Porthos or snacks,” Aramis intones, having heard the corridor argy bargy about being carried.

“Move,” Athos says, shoving Aramis’s head gently with his knee. Aramis sits up so Athos can sit down, then sprawls over his lap, hair spreading. It’s soft when Athos threads his fingers in.

“Porthos will be cross,” Aramis hums, hedonistic, wriggling to get more firmly comfy. “He was sat there.”

Porthos is not cross he sits on the floor and rests an arm on the sofa and his head on his arm, facing them, eyes bright, and talks excitedly and non-stop about the events on the calendar and Christmas coming and Aramis not being allowed to go to carols on that day actually because his father and sisters are coming and Porthos is not going to be left to entertain his two atheist sisters again alone they’re lovely but no, and Aramis suggests softly that maybe Athos or d’Artagnan will be around but Porthos just grumbles wordlessly until Aramis promises to either take all his noisy chaotic family to church or none of it. Porthos writes a series of dates on Athos’s arm and extracts promises of company on shopping trips and then he and Aramis go through Aramis’s ideas and Porthos commits to going to some too and helping out with some. Athos is not expected to do church things which is wonderful. He does offer to help out at a community meal, there will be free food for volunteers.

d’Artagnan gets home late, his uniform wet, looking very tired. He stops in the doorway to tell them wearily about policing an event and getting pushed into a puddle for being a fucking cop and then he goes off to shower. Porthos gets up silently and follows after him. The shower goes on. Aramis and Athos wait. Eventually the other two come back in pyjamas, or new pyjamas in Porthos’s case, with more blankets, hair damp. d’Artagnan looks happier, Athos wonders if they had shower sex but Porthos usually resists that because he likes his showers to be hedonistic and sex is ‘work’ also shower sex is far too complicated. Maybe they had post shower sex, or at least orgasms. Athos looks for signs of pleasure in d’Artagnan. They’ve just been talking about Christmas, though, Porthos roping d’Artagnan into doing things for the gift thing the school runs for the less well-off families, and into helping out with the food bank thing where the school organises Christmas Dinners (either supplies or places to attend) for kids and families. d’Artagnan believes in community policing, with the emphasis on community, in helping people navigate the law and accessing the law for protection. Athos has a lot of sympathy for him trying to be a policeman with an attitude like. Personally he thinks of police and the law as tools for the rich and powerful, used to ‘keep order’. He might have a lawyer’s cynicism, however. Maybe d’Artagnan’s right. Tonight is not the time to debate it, either way. Athos pointedly grumbles about Christmas and at once is swamped by his various partners’ enthusiasms for the blasted holiday season.

“Does it actually bother you or were you being a distraction for d’Artagnan?” Porthos whispers, later, the other two asleep, Athos puttering about their bedroom, Porthos sitting at Aramis’s dresing table watching Athos, wrapping his hair. He’d come up to bed with Athos instead of playing Overwatch until fucking-oh-god-christ o’clock in the morning.

“Are we talking about my ‘feelings’?” Athos grouches, finishing putting away laundry d’Artagnan abandoned at some point.

“Ok,” Porthos says. “So we’re gonna go shopping with Mum on Friday, and I’m gonna also go on Sunday to help Treville so he doesn’t buy absolute crap for the kids in care, he panic buys gifts which is no good.”

“What kind of shopping?” Athos asks, thinking that after nearly forty years Treville is probably perfectly capable of providing for the kids in the group home he runs and he is probably either playing Porthos or they both just do it for fun (and free coffee and muffins for Porthos.

“With mum and you the sort where we meander around the first Christmas Market of the year and drink copious amounts of overpriced mulled wine at your expense and eat every sugary thing at mum’s expense,” Porthos says.

“What’s at your expense?” Athos asks.

Porthos looks at the ceiling and then pretends distraction over Aramis’s many colourful nail polishes. He makes a delighted sound, genuinely distracted, and pulls out a bright pink one that’s unopened. Athos gives up on his grouchy tidying and goes to lean on Porthos’s broad shoulders, wrapping an arm around him and pressing kisses to his bandanna.

“Come to bed,” Athos murmurs.

“Mm, ok,” Porthos says, abandoning the nail polish and the dressing table and turning, spreading his thighs for Athos to stand between, looking up at Athos waiting expectantly to be kissed. Athos complies.

“Bed,” he repeats.

“They’re asleep,” Porthos says, waving more or less in the direction of the bed.

“Spare room,” Athos says, tugging Porthos’s bandanna off and carding through his hair so he can rub at his scalp, thumb pressing behind his ear, pulling him closer, pressing closer.

“Right spare room,” Porthos agrees, stumbling up and pushing Athos back, backwards to the door, hands around his waist guiding him.

Athos loves sex with Porthos, not just because Porthos is big and hot and has a nice cock, store bought but at some expense so it’s good texture and colour and unique and fitted just for him. Sex with Porthos is wonderful because Porthos thinks Athos is wonderful, and says so in mutters and awed whispers and with his fingers and kisses. He gets this look, sometimes, when he’s over Athos, between Athos’s thighs, against Athos; this look of open mouthed, breathless, awe. Like he’s saturated with pleasure and half out of his head as he sweats and moves and shifts and groans and looks right at Athos, right deep into him, like Athos is bigger too, is the best and only thing in the universe. Athos likes that, likes being the focus of Porthos’s intensity and wonder, likes getting up onto his elbows under Porthos’s weight, pressed close and sticking and wet between them, between their bellies, his legs over Porthos’s, likes getting closer and gripping Porthos’s shoulder, cradling his head and pulling him into a kiss, into a panting open kiss. Athos’s orgasm surprises him and his head tips back, into Porthos’s hand, he falls back against the bed, followed by Porthos who comes quietly, curled against Athos, still knitted together.

Unfortunately they’re both tired and fall asleep and Athos wakes up uncomfortable and sticky, in fact stuck to Porthos by dried cum. Porthos is sprawled, legs open, still with the harness and hard packer. He looks obscene, he’s a mess. Athos showers and goes to find Aramis and d’Artagnan. They all four, for once, have a day off Aramis doesn’t even have to take the Sunday service this week. Athos finds Aramis in the kitchen, drinking coffee and reading. The day’s already begun a while ago and Aramis has opened the curtains to let in the light, so he’s well lit, his hair a little red-brown. He looks peaceful, his face soft and relaxed, the lines of him at rest. He looks up and smiles, all clean and soft and pleased. Athos gets himself coffee.

“You should go see Porthos he looks marvelous,” Athos says. “He’s in the spare room.”

Aramis gets up and toddles obediently off, leaving Athos to his peaceful morning coffee. 


	2. II

Porthos comes home on Thursday with a distinct limp and a grimace of pain every time he puts weight on his left leg. He says he’s fine and curses at them when they try to find anything out. He limps and grimaces around the kitchen making dinner for him and Athos (Aramis is about to go out for his communal dinner thing and he’s taking d’Artagnan), then limps and grimaces his way to the table to eat, then limps and grimaces his way to the sofa where he flops down and growls at anyone who tries to ask him anything or try and get him to do anything to alleviate his obvious pain. Aramis and Athos play ‘rock, paper, scissors’ to see who has to brave the grouch and by the time they’ve got through the game d’Artagnan’s gone through. Aramis and Athos creep to the doorway to watch. So far d’Artagnan’s just sat and put the TV on, as they arrive he curls up against Porthos’s side and sighs very loudly.

“What?” Porthos asks sounding resigned. He knows he’s about to get played, but he can’t ignore possible d’Artagnan Distress.

“I don’t really feel like going to Aramis’s dinner thing,” d’Artagnan says.

Aramis opens his mouth to protest, prickling. Athos restrains him with a whispered promise to go instead. He can eat two dinners. If Porthos can do it (he often does) then Athos can. He’ll just do exercises or something.

“So stay here with me,” Porthos says, wrapping a big arm around d’Artagnan. d’Artagnan loves Porthos’s cuddles and forgets for a bit that he’s trying to get something out of Porthos. Porthos smiles and glances at the doorway with a smug little look.

“I will,” d’Artagnan says, nuzzling Porthos’s shoulder. “What did you do to your leg?”

Athos straightens and Aramis starts: that’s not subtle!

“Sprained my fucking ankle,” Porthos says, sighing, thunking his head back on the sofa cushions. “I fell down a step.”

“The stairs?”

“A step.”

“Just one?”

“Just one.”

“Was it … high?”

“No.”

“Were you?”

“Fuck off.”

d'Artagnan laughs, wriggling closer to Porthos. Maybe subtle wasn’t necessary.

“Why are we keeping it a secret?” d’Artagnan asks.

“It’s Christmas. I need to go shopping with Mum and then Treville on Sunday, I need to make cookies, I need to do things,” Porthos says, voice raising a little as he goes through.

“And we have decided that ignoring our hurt ankle and walking on it and not taking care of it will make it vanish?” d’Artagnan says.

“Don’t think my ankle will vanish that’s absurd,” Porthos grumbles. “Fine, you can take me to the bloody ER and we will sit for bloody ages and they’ll put a bloody tubigrip thing on it and give me bloody rules.”

Porthos heaves himself up and yanks d’Artagnan too, making him yelp, surprised and shocked right out of his cuddle. Porthos tucks d’Artagnan under an arm and limps over right toward Aramis and Athos. Aramis makes a startled noise and shoves Athos into a wall, kissing him thoroughly. Athos is not against this, in general or specifically right now, he tangles his fingers into Aramis’s shirt and hums against his lips, happy to be shoved about and kissed.

“I don’t believe a second of it,” Porthos says, limping past. Then he pauses. “Except for Athos enjoying being shoved against a wall and Taken Roughly.”

“I’m being very gentle actually,” Aramis says, breath hot on Athos’s face.

Athos waits patiently, head tipping against the wall, eyes on Aramis’s face, open for whatever Aramis wants from him. Aramis gives his cheek a stroke in praise and Athos smiles, lowering his eyes.

“God’s sake,” Porthos mutters. “Come on d’Art, they’re gonna have sex in the hallway.”

They do. It’s very pleasurable and not at all uncomfortable. It’s really rather wonderful. Athos lies on the sofa after, forgetting his promise to go to dinner. Aramis leaves him there, laughing, pressing a kiss to Athos’s cheek and forehead and lips before rushing off in a whirl of good cologne and a complaint about his dog-collar. Porthos comes back hours later with crutches, eyes red with tiredness and, according to d’Artagnan, crying. He’s been told to stay off the ankle as much as possible, to rest his ankle, to not walk around Christmas markets and shops for hours and hours and hours. He has not got a tubigrip but a proper brace and support thing. Aramis rings Marie-Cessette in the morning, and Athos promises to pick Porthos up from work anyway. He takes the car and drives to town, Porthos exhaustedly napping in the front seat. Athos drags a sleepy, slow Porthos to Caffe Nero near by the market and buys him cake and a mince-pie and himself coffee and Marie-Cessette comes and goes, leaving bags, talking to Porthos about what she’s bought, giving him lists of names and leaving him to keep track of what she’s buying for whom. Porthos’s face goes from grumpy confusion to tired pleasure as the afternoon becomes evening and then Marie-Cessette joins them, tired and happy too, and they put their heads together to bicker about what they’ve got and what’s still needing to be bought. Marie has a million and one kids who she fostered for various stretches of time and she buys and sends many many cards and presents. Christmas dinner at the du Vallon house is always busy with comings and goings.

“Thanks,” Porthos says, back in the car heading home.

“Aramis’s idea,” Athos says. “No shopping on Sunday though, you must be knackered.”

“Little bit. I might go just for a bit? I can at least do that again, sit in a café,” Porthos says hopefully.

“Fine but not for the whole day,” Athos negotiates.

“Alright,” Porthos says, agreeing easily. “I love doing gifts, I’m so relieved I don’t have to miss it all.”

“You’re ridiculous. None of the songs say ‘time to joy in rampant commercialism and contribute to capitalistic fuckery’,” Athos grumbles.

“Sure there’s one somewhere,” Porthos says, unphased. “Mum got me a CD can we listen?”

Athos says yes, not paying attention. Porthos usually gives the name date and a shit load of trivia of anything he’s going to put on, ‘something Mum bought’ should have been a red flag. Athos blames it on feeling a bit sorry that Porthos got hurt and grits his teeth and bares the blasted Christmas songs all the way home, Porthos bellowing joyfully along.


	3. III

“No!” There’s a yell from the kitchen and a crash.

 

Athos stumbles into the wall, curses, bumps into a chair, curses, hears Porthos yell in pain and curses, running into a doorframe and finally getting out of the pitch dark living room and into the hall where there’s a door or curtain or something open letting in the slight light outside. He charges down the corridor and bursts into the kitchen. It’s dark in here, too, but Porthos strikes a match and lights a candle as Athos comes in. Athos dashes to him and takes his elbows, his arms, checking him where he’s hurt, searching for threat. It’s just Porthos though, with one crutch, looking at the kitchen counter. 

 

“Where’s your other crutch?” Athos demands, letting go of Porthos and crossing his arms. “You need to use both. Why are you up? You should be resting your ankle.”

 

“It’s been a week it’s fine,” Porthos says. “My cake.The oven’s gone off.”

 

“It’s electric, there’s a blackout and a storm, obviously,” Athos says. “That’s obviously why you were yelling and stuff.”

 

“I was making a cake,” Porthos says. “It’s gonna sink.”

 

“Maybe the electricity will come back before that happens,” Athos says, turning to peer in the dim light at the dark oven. “Or we could eat it half cooked.”

 

“That’s cookies, that you eat raw,” Porthos says. “It’s apple spiced cake for christmas.”

 

“Oh well,” Athos says, running out of sympathy. He’s not great at this. Prothos snorts. 

 

“Just give me a cuddle you idiot,” Porthos says. 

 

“Oh,” Athos says. 

 

That he can do. He puts his arms around Porthos and pushes himself a bit taller so Porthos can snug into his arms and press his face into his shoulder and huff out a tired breath. 

 

“My ankle hurts,” Porthos mutters. 

 

Athos pushes him up and points him out to the livingroom then remembers it’s dark. He takes Porthos’s hand and tugs him along instead, setting up the footstool under Porthos’s ankle and sitting close, leaning on Porthos. 

 

“Thanks,” Porthos says. “I’m anxious about cake.”

 

“Hmm. I’m glad you weren’t dying or something and I had to hit no people with frying pans,” Athos says. 

 

“Frying pans,” Porthos says. 

 

“Mm.”

 

Porthos laughs, putting his arm around Athos and resting his head on Athos’s head, body shifting with his mirth. Athos hums happily. Half an hour later the lights come back on and they put the TV on, forgetting the cake until d’Artagnan comes in an hour later with it looking confused, wanting to use the oven to make dinner. Porthos looks at the cake, uncooked and sunk, dipped and flat, but also burnt on edges. d’Artagnan is grinning, he thinks Athos made it. 

 

“What on earth is it anyway?” d’Artagnan says, laughing. 

 

“A cake,” Porthos says, lip quivering. 

 

“Ha!” d’Artagnan says. “Oh my god, Athos, it’s over flowed on the oven and like, stuck everywhere? It looks like cheese!”

 

Porthos bursts into tears, hands over his face. Athos sighs and raises his eyebrow at d’Artagnan. Aramis comes in with an apple and looks at them. 

 

“Are you two gonna comfort him or just leave him crying, there?” Aramis says, exasperated. 

 

Aramis climbs onto the sofa and folds Porthos into his arms, against his chest, against his soft jumper. Athos scrunches up his face and leans against Porthos’s back putting his arms around him too. d’Artagnan sits next to Athos and reaches for Porthos too. Athos wriggles and disengages himself, getting Porthos some nice tea and painkillers and snacks. He’s stopped crying when Athos gets back, he’s just sniffing and rubbing at his face, he looks kinda frustrated. Aramis is stroking his arm and hair, an elbow on the back of the sofa gazing softly at Porthos. d’Artagnan’s resting his head on Prothos’s shoulder and rubbing his chest and murmuring at him. Porthos sends Athos a helpless look. Athos hands over food, tea and meds. 

 

“Guys,” Porthos says. “I’m being ridiculous stop being soliticous.”

 

“That nearly rhymes,” Athos says, sitting on Aramis until Aramis shifts so he’s between Aramis and Porthos. “Are you ok?”

 

“Tired, my ankle hurts, hungry, sad about my cake,” Porthos says. 

 

“Aramis can make one he makes nicer apple cake anyway,” Athos says, taking some grapes from the snacks he brought for Porthos. 

 

“Okay,” Porthos says, shutting his eyes and leaning into d’Artagnan. 

 

“I want to help too,” Aramis says. “I was being nice and soft and gentle, how was I meant to know you were upset about a silly thing I wasn’t home for any of the cake drama, I don’t want to be banished to the Athos end of the sofa.”

 

“I’m a good end,” Athos says, offended. 

 

Aramis gets up and sits on Athos, hoping Athos will move. Athos doesn’t. Aramis waits. Athos waits. Aramis sighs. Athos wraps his arms around Aramis’s waist and Aramis gets comfortable, resigned to not getting any sofa. It’s much nicer this way anyhow.

 

“My ankle really hurts,” Porthos says. “It always hurts and I’ve been teaching all day and I’m tired. My ankle hurts.”

 

“You’re very whiney,” d’Artagnan says. 

 

Porthos starts to cry again. They all pile on to cuddle him. 

 


	4. IV

Athos opens the car door and helps Porthos out of the seat, letting Porthos hold onto him until Aramis comes around with his crutches. After the Cake Debacle d’Artagnan got suspicious about Porthos being in pain and did stern questioning (got him nowhere) and then sad questioning (still nowhere) and then world weary fed up with everything questioning (that was the one that did it) and Porthos had finally admitted that rather than a measly sprain his ankle was ‘fucked up’. On being asked for more information Porthos just grumbled but over the past few days little snippets have snuck out. A page of notes from the doctor with can and can’ts, some exercises, some suggestions for pain management. An explanation that he’d broken it once and twisted and sprained it a lot since then so it’s kind of funky anyway. A couple of things the doctor said. So now they’re all very solicitous and trying to keep Porthos off the bloody thing so it’ll heal up well. 

 

“I can do it,” Porthos grouches, pushing at Athos and taking his crutches.

 

“Sure,” Athos says, sticking his hands in his pockets and ducking his head, biting his lip. 

 

“Oh fine,” Porthos says, tugging Athos’s arm until his hand comes out of the pocket and patting his hand. “Thank you.”

 

Athos beams and goes to help Aramis unload things. They’re at the church hall, running a present wrapping station for the young people’s party happening later. Aramis is hopeful about Christmas carols but the rest of them assume organised chaos. d’Artagnan carries arm fulls of paper rolls, suitably non-santa and non-Jesus decorated, Athos brings a bag of bows and ribbons and scissors and tape and who knew what, a bag of snacks, and a box of juice cartons, leaving Aramis to lug everything else. They head inside and dump their stuff on the trestle table already set up. There are already people here, Aramis’s parishioners, a nice lady with grey hair called Rachel, a woman with a toddler, a man with a lot of hair, and Marsac. 

 

“I brought reinforcements,” Aramis announces, leading them all in. “Athos and d’Artagnan can do whatever you need, Rachel, Porthos is going to  _ sit down nicely _ and wrap the presents.”

 

Porthos clunks obediently over to a chair near the table and sits. He’s next to the small toddler. They exchange commiserating looks. 

 

“Marie can help you wrap, she makes lovely labels,” Marie’s mother says, sounding harried. 

 

“Are you Marie?” Porthos asks the kid. The kid nods. “Good. We can do cellotape and stuff.”

 

They do ‘cellotape and stuff’ for about half an hour, Porthos keeping Marie entertained - he lets her hold the paper in place and tells her everything he’s doing and gets her fetching things for him, shows her how to make curly ribbon and fancy bows. He talks with her mother, Elodie, as she comes and goes, makes her laugh, gets her sitting down and showing them the label shapes. Athos watches, between tasks set him by Rachel. He’s between things and at a bit of a loose end, nothing to hang or stick or put up or set up, Aramis settles beside him. 

 

“He’s incredible,” Aramis whispers. “Elodie’s not had an easy time, getting her sat down, eating, and smiling, is a gold star in my book.”

 

“He’s flirting,” d’Artagnan says, sailing up with his arms full of wrapped gifts. He winks at them then sails off to lay them under the tree. 

 

“Tonight’s the first night of Hanukkah,” Aramis says. “I thought about getting a menorah in here. We’re not in-your-face religious at the hall, but… christmas. I did get a menorah.”

 

Athos notices. d’Artagnan is setting up some presents around it. It has good thick candles that look like they’ll burn forever. The stars will come out while the party runs. It’s not like they’re in church, either. Just the hall. 

 

“Will there be Jewish kids here?” Athos asks. 

 

“Some,” Aramis says. “This is going to be mostly local kids, it was advertised in schools and things, it’s not a religious thing. Do you know the prayers? The words?”

 

“Mm,” Athos says. 

 

d’Artagnan looks up, then, at Athos, and he looks so pleased. He indicates the menorah and then does a little bounce-wriggle thing and holds up a thinner candle. There’s a helper candle, too. Athos nods. They’ll do the first Hanukkah candle here. They can light it at home too, later, without the blessing. Porthos comes clunking over to stand with them. 

 

“What’s going on?” he asks. 

 

“Why are you not sitting down?” Aramis says, hands on hips. “So help me God I will take you right back home if you don’t behave.”

 

Porthos chuckles and ruffles Aramis’s hair, then waits until they tell him what’s going on before he’ll sit back down. They’re mostly ready now which is good, the first parents are appearing with the kids. The age range is wide but a lot of them are in their early teens, they take snacks and drinks and sit around talking, a game of tag rushes around for a bit, a laughing charades-like thing Aramis has invented. Athos supervises for a while, then there’s music and some of the younger kids start a game of pin the tail on Mary’s donkey. Athos goes to check the stars are out then hovers awkwardly, not sure what to do. Porthos notices, head bent next to Elodie’s at a table. Porthos says something and nudges Elodie who gets up and goes to talk to Aramis before winding her way to Athos. 

 

“Porthos says you’re going to say the blessing?” Elodie says. 

 

“Yeah,” Athos says. “Um.”

 

She winds them through to the candles and Aramis claps his hands, announcing that they’re going to do presents now but first Athos is going to tell them about the menorah. Athos had not been expecting that. Luckily d’Artagnan comes and tells an enthusiastic version of the story of the Maccabees, the purified temple and the miraculously burning wicks. He tells them that they have to light the candle to publicize the miracle, and suggests that they all pretend to be town criers for a while. They all shout and heckle and Athos is not sure this is really a traditional Hanukkah but everyone seems joyful and happy and he doesn’t want to change that so he just waits for a break in the noise and then says the blessing that he learnt from his mother. d’Artagnan lights the helper candle and then the menorah and there’s silence as they all watch. Athos breathes. He likes this, likes the quiet, the moment. Then it breaks and there’s a scuffle for gifts and Athos is busy helping out again. 

 

He sits with Porthos after that, tired and fed up with the noise and bustle of people. Porthos is bored, fed up with not being in the centre of people, abandoned by Elodie. She apparently took Marie home to bed. Porthos seems to be idly sulking about that for entertainment. Athos leans against him and yawns. Aramis eventually notices and comes to give Athos the keys promising that he and d’Artagnan will get a ride home with someone. Athos suggests Porthos come too but Porthos just looks at him until he goes away. Athos goes and lights his own menorah, then makes dinner and has a glass of wine in front of the TV. d’Artagnan brings Porthos home an hour later and Athos hears them having sex upstairs. He goes up to see but they seem to be happy without him, so he wanders off again. 

 

“Athos!” d’Artagnan calls before he can get very far. 

 

Athos heads back and takes off his socks and waits to be invited. d’Artagnan tells him to take the rest off then climb onto the bed with them. It’s not very acrobatic, with Porthos’s ankle, but it’s pleasurable. Afterwards Porthos complains about Athos not waiting for them to light the candles here and throws a present at Athos in retaliation or something. d’Artagnan gets given his in a nice sedate manner. His is books though while Athos’s is a stuffed giraffe.

 

“What?” Athos says, looking at the thing. 

 

“It’s to go in the microwave, to hot up,” Porthos says, huffing about Athos not being psychic and knowing things. “Constance made it so it’s got no tags but it’s obvious.”

 

“Constance made it?”

 

“Yes. I bought it from her,” Porthos says. “I felt bad for her. I thought no one would buy them. Lots of people bought them. She has none left.”

 

Athos laughs. He quite likes the thing and he does get cold sometimes, he goes to make it hot and meets Aramis just coming in looking tired so he makes Aramis tea and takes him up to bed with them. And the hot giraffe. 

  
  



	5. V

Porthos usually carries a tree into the house, but this year he’s still on crutches, his ankle still fucked up, and he can’t carry the tree. He wasn’t really able to do a lot of things in the run up; making cookies, he could do some but with the term running later, his ankle, Aramis doing more community stuff, it hadn’t really happened; shopping, for similar reasons; going out to gather greenery to decorate, not able to walk on his ankle enough; he’d done craft things and made cards but he hadn’t been happy with either. He stands gloomily in the front garden, leaning on his crutches, as Athos and d’Artagnan swear and yell at each other and wrestle with a tree, pushing and shoving until they’re inside the house. Porthos crutches gloomily after them and supervises them putting it in the holder and arguing over how that works. His gloom is not helping their bickering. Aramis comes in, still in a coat, already halfway back out the door back to work even though he’s only been home half an hour. He pauses to give Porthos a kiss then wanders off. 

 

“I guess  _ we  _ don’t get kisses,” d’Artagnan grumbles, glaring at the space Aramis was. “Athos put that fucking thing down, it’s in it’s stable don’t touch it.”

 

“A little extra -”

 

“No.”

 

Athos drops the folded paper he was going to use in the stand to keep the tree good and sturdy and goes to get water. There are special bits of the stand for water to go, to try and keep trees from shedding. Porthos is up, when he gets back, waving on crutches and hanging stuff, d’Artagnan on the sofa tapping at a phone. 

 

“Why is he up?” Athos snaps. “d’Artagnan!”

 

“What? He’s a grown up,” d’Artagnan says, rolling his eyes. 

 

“Porthos sit down,” Athos says, pointing to a chair. “You can tell me where to put them.”

 

“I’m a grown up,” Porthos says, but sits in the armchair, face pinched with pain. Athos gets him a stool for his ankle and glares until Porthos sits back and takes some paracetamol. “I hate this Christmas.”

 

“Yes well,” Athos says. 

 

He puts the decorations on the tree as he’s directed, d’Artagnan laughing at his phone and getting on Athos’s nerves by not helping. Porthos mutters ‘I’m a grown up’ before getting up to put the star on the tree, reaches up, loses his balance, and falls face first into the tree crushing it against a wall. 

 

“I should have put the paper in,” Athos says, gloomily, fishing Porthos out of the branches and brushing him off, nudging him gently back into the chair and crouching. “Did you hurt yourself?”

 

“It was the tree’s fault,” Porthos says. 

 

“Sure,” Athos says, assuming that’s a no. 

 

He gets up and rights the tree, d’Artagnan gets up to help too and they set to bickering again. Porthos watches them until Athos snaps and throws the star at d’Artagnan, too annoyed to stop himself. Porthos heaves himself to his feet and moves slowly out of the room. 

 

“Fuck,” d’Artagnan says. 

 

“Oops,” Athos says. 

 

“Rock paper scissors?”

 

They play and Athos loses. He trails Porthos to the spare room and taps on the door, slipping in. He gets bellowed at and a pillow thrown so he goes to the living-room to confer with d’Artagnan. He goes back up twenty minutes later and finds Porthos curled in an unhappy knot on the bed, he doesn’t seem to have the energy to yell or throw things, he’s too busy crying. Athos sits on the edge of the bed and rubs Porthos’s arm, lifting a loopy curl away from his face to see him better. 

 

“It’ll be ok,” Athos says. 

 

“It’s not,” Porthos whispers. “It’s horrible. You’re all fighting, I broke the tree, my ankle hurts too much to be Christmassy. Everything’s gone wrong. There was my cake, and I couldn’t make enough cookies, and now the tree.”

 

“The tree’s fine,” Athos assures, exasperated by Porthos’s insistence on Christmas being picture perfect, on them all being picture perfect and not ‘ruining’ the holiday. 

 

“Oh you can piss off,” Porthos snaps. “Emotions aren’t unreasonable, Athos. I’m sad, I’m allowed to be sad, I am in pain and everything sucks.”

 

Athos sighs and gets the pillow Porthos threw at him, elevating Porthos’s ankle. Porthos has switched back to quiet misery, anger leaving him. Athos lies on his back next to Porthos, looking at the ceiling. He doesn’t think emotions are unreasonable. Porthos just seems to have an awful lot of the things and Athos only about three. Porthos presses his forehead to Athos’s upper arm and makes a huffing, tired noise, resting a hand on Athos’s stomach, shutting his eyes. Athos shuts his eyes too. 

 

“I do not know what to say to make it better,” Athos says, putting his hands over Porthos’s on his stomach. 

 

“I dunno,” Porthos mutters, breath catching slightly. 

 

“Ok,” Athos says. 

 

“And I couldn't do parties and things properly I just got left in a corner now I know what being you is like. It sucks,” Porthos says. 

 

“I like corners,” Athos says. “I like being left.”

 

“Sucks,” Porthos says, then sighs and tugs Athos closer. “I just feel like I haven’t got to enjoy everything, and I let people down.”

 

“Um,” Athos says. “The last?”

 

“Well, I couldn’t help as much, and I couldn’t do the stall at school with the gifts or take the choir carolling or anything,” Porthos says. “And I didn’t make biscuits for everyone and I didn’t get much of my shopping done, some people haven’t got much from me.”

 

“I think everyone will be understanding,” Athos says. “You haven’t let me down. I love my Hanukkah things.”

 

“You’re easy though,” Porthos says. “I’ve had most of that crap for ages. I just pick stuff up and then usually it ends up being Hanukkah things because I’m not allowed to just give you things for random, apparently.”

 

“I find it awkward to be given things,” Athos explains, for the millionth time.”

 

“Exactly,” Porthos says. 

 

“You could nap,” Athos says. “I’ll wake you up to light the candles.”

 

“Or I could complain some more,” Porthos says, yawning widely. 

 

The room’s warm and Athos strategizes and decides to just hum and brush his hands over Porthos when he complains, just kissing him gently and pulling him closer, just rubbing his back or arm. Porthos gets drowsier and slower, and then he falls asleep. Athos gets up and goes down to the living room, where he finds Aramis, d’Artagnan, and Marie-Cesette in conference. 


	6. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is longer soz, I am un-succinct. I thought well it's xmas day so

Christmas day usually begins when Porthos gets up to start getting things ready; food and gifts for going to his family, things under the tree for when Aramis’s family come by on Boxing day, waffles and coffee for when the others get up, gifts at their places on the table, Bach’s Christmas Oratoria on the CD player. This year Hanukkah is over, so Athos and d’Artangan have had their gifts and just Aramis’s needs checking and putting under the tree. But Porthos isn’t up, this year. Athos wakes up at eleven and finds Porthos still in bed next to him. It’s not entirely surprising, Aramis and d’Artagnan are up and they’ll be doing the things Porthos usually does, Aramis probably already been to church and back and heading out again for another service. Athos has been allowed a lie in to keep Porthos company which is the best job. He pushes his arms under Porthos and around, squeezing gently, pushing his face against Porthos’s back, kissing his shoulder. Porthos huffs.

 

“I’m awake,” Porthos mumbles.

 

“Morning,” Athos whispers, still sleepy, warmed by Porthos. “You’re so nice.”

 

“Not a teddy bear,” Porthos grumbles. “My ankle hurts.”

 

Athos reaches over to his side table and drops paracetamol in front of Porthos. Porthos takes some and then sighs, pushing into Athos’s arms and tugging the duvet up high around his head, hiding from the world.

 

“Not gonna see if there’s a stocking?” Athos whispers, catching a thread of Christmas excitement.

 

Porthos shakes his head, snuffling sadly into his pillow. Athos heaves himself up and rolls himself over Porthos ignoring the yelps and protests, following the path of the paracetamol. When he’s in front of Porthos he can push their foreheads together. Porthos grumbles wordlessly at him and Athos laughs, which makes Porthos’s lips twitch so Athos kisses him and cradles his face and holds him and kisses him again and Porthos gives in, snagging a hand in Athos’s t-shirt (Aramis’s really but Athos wears it to bed so now it’s his until he wants Aramis to make it smell like Aramis again). Athos is quite proud of himself for getting Porthos a bit breathless and not grumbling at all so he’s distracted so he is surprised when Porthos growls and tugs, shifts, rolls in a swift movement that leaves Athos pinned, Porthos over him, curls loose around his face, eyes sleepy and half open, cheek pillow-creased. Athos gazes up at him.

 

“Little nuisance,” Porthos says, voice rough with sleep and maybe arousal Athos hopes. Porthos has his wrists held above his head. “Little tiny speck of nonsense.”

 

Athos laughs again and Porthos lunges, kisses him silent, pushing him flat and quiet and quiescent.

 

“I’m your nonsense,” Athos whispers, keeping his eyes away from Porthos’s face and his voice low and passive.

 

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees, breathing hot and close then dragging his lips over Athos’s cheek and neck and then kissing him, licking his collarbone and kissing him, kissing where his neck meets his body, kissing him. “Yeah, you are, aren’t you? Bloody nonsense you are.”

 

Athos nods. He’s enjoying himself immensely, giving under Porthos’s hands and kisses, letting himself go limp and pliant, pushing into Porthos’s hands just a bit to get pressed to the bed again and called a nuisance and a nonsense, when the bedroom door opens and d’Artagnan comes in.

 

“Hmph,” Porthos says, rolling off Athos and out of bed, padding naked to the door and pushing past d’Artagnan leaving Athos disappointed.

 

“d’Art!” Athos whines.

 

“Sorry,” d’Artagnan says, sounding anything-but; amused, mostly. “You look ravished, darling. Absolutely splendid.”

 

“No use now is it,” Athos complains, tipping his head back into the pillows and shifting his hips uselessly. “You scared him away.”

 

d’Artagnan laughs and goes to the closet to get out clothes, a coat, gloves. He also retrieves Porthos’s stocking from where it’s falling to the floor and sets it on a side table.

 

“He didn’t take his crutches,” d’Artagnan says.

 

“Leave him be,” Athos says. “Then he might come back.”

 

d’Artagnan laughs again, delighted at Athos, and wanders off forgetting his things. He comes back naked and damp and Athos gets up on his elbows to glower because THAT means d’Art’s been in the shower with _Porthos_ which just is not fair. But then Porthos comes through, too, also naked, also damp, following after d’Artagnan. He gets an arm around d’Artagnan’s waist and shoves him onto the bed with Athos, crawling on after him, glaring them both into submission. Athos gets his satisfaction after all, tangled with d’Artagnan, lips and hands and hair and warmth and heat, Porthos moving over him. Porthos ends in d’Artagnan’s arms between his thighs, Athos straddling both their thighs, resting curled on Porthos’s chest, all of them sweaty and sticky. Aramis finds them like that and complains plaintively that they keep having sex without him, and about the cold outside, before wriggling his way amongst them and wrapping his arms around Porthos’s head, peppering him with kisses. Eventually Porthos gets curious about the stocking and they have to all go shower and get unstuck.

 

Porthos sits against the headboard, utterly naked and gloriously so, the rest of them have at least put pants on though Aramis has got no further. Athos isn’t sure when Aramis even got naked in the first place but now he’s sat cross leged facing Porthos, at his hip, his pants covered in Christmas trees. Athos has Porthos’s shirt on which is much more dignified and he’s curled against Porthos’s side which is the best place to be. d’Artagnan is fully dressed and is tidying up around them, tutting and trying to cajole them all back out of bed. They ignore him and Porthos empties the stocking making little pleased noises over the small gifts and sweets. As always he likes the tangerines best and eats one, giving the other to Aramis with a kiss of gratitude. Aramis beams around at having got Porthos a good stocking and Athos falls asleep.

 

He’s roused before any length of time and made to put trousers on and socks and a jumper. d’Artagnan lets Athos wear one of his jumpers in the end in frustration. Then it’s a matter of the two of them cajoling Aramis into clothing and then Porthos. By which time Aramis has shed a few layers and is cooking in the kitchen. Eventually they get out of the house and bundled into the car, Porthos growling at them for jogging his ankle but otherwise mostly content. They’re going to be late, according to Porthos’s schedule, but he’s still not his usual Christmas self so he doesn’t care. He sits in the back seat holding Aramis’s hand, d’Artagnan driving, and keeps quiet. It’s wet and slippy on the path up to Marie-Cessette’s and Aramis and d’Artagnan both wrap arms around Porthos’s waist, his over their shoulders. Athos brings the crutches. As Athos comes up the path behind the careful threesome he can imagine Porthos’s foot slipping, him falling onto his bad foot, bones breaking, blood, yelling. They make it to the door and Marie-Cessette opens it, making a ‘tch’ sound.

 

“Charon! You were going to grit the path!” She yells back into the house.

 

“Sorry Ma!” Charon says, ducking around her with a bag of salt.

 

“It’s too late now,” Marie-Cessette says and he stops. “No, do it, you’re out here you might as well. Come on in, come in. You have a chair, Porthos, and you are to sit and not move your boys told me you’re not supposed to be walking.”

 

“They did, did they?” Porthos mutters. “They’re wrong anyway what you think they give me crutches for?”

 

“Pissing,” Marie says, hands on her hips.

 

Porthos wavers under his mother’s stern glower, ducking his head. d’Artagnan laughs and hauls them into the hallway before hugging Porthos from the side enthusiastically but carefully, kissing his cheek and forehead. Aramis holds Porthos to keep him steady and nuzzles, kissing too.

 

“Oi, get off,” Porthos says, to him and Aramis, turning to Athos.

 

Athos decides that he will also hug and kiss Porthos, he passes the crutches to Aramis. Somehow suddenly the hall fills with people, Charon coming back, Flea coming down stairs, Samara coming out of the kitchen with her father Alaman, not a foster kid but they both came as refugees and stayed with Porthos and Marie-Cessette until they were on their feet. Marie-Anne comes hurtling down the stairs, fluffy blond hair streaming, laughing, Ralph on her heels, Luc coming down after them looking harassed. Marie-Anne flies into Porthos and Porthos curses, Marie-Cessette tells him off, Flea hugs someone, Ralph bursts into tears (he’s only small, only just three), Luc picks him up, Charon laughs too loudly, Aramis pushes through to hang up coats. Athos leans Porthos on the wall and picks Marie up, then gets under Porthos’s arm again and lugs his bounty into the living-room. Treville’s sat there by the window with a glass of whiskey, he looks up guiltily at their entry but grins when it’s not Marie-Cessette come to tell him to help out. Athos puts Porthos in the armchair with the foot rest all set up and sets Marie-Anne in his lap.

 

“Now what?” Porthos asks, eyes bright with amusement.

 

“Whiskey,” Athos says, pointing at Treville.

 

Treville’s hand tightens possessively on his glass but he gets up to the counter-top and gets Athos a glass. There’s the tree in the corner, with lights, and the light from outside, and a corner lamp, but that’s it. It’s peaceful for the moment. Athos sits on the sofa and lets out a sigh. Porthos whispers to Marie-Anne and sets her giggling before putting her on the floor and sending her off, also letting out a sigh.

 

“Where’s mine?” Porthos says, levelling a belligerent look at Treville.

 

“Same place as your Christmas spirit,” Treville says.

 

Athos winces and passes Porthos his glass. Porthos sips it, glowering at Treville. Treville gets up and goes out, muttering something about helping. He’s probably going to skulk off outside for a smoke. Porthos huffs and shifts, swearing.

 

“What can I do?” Athos asks, looking at his hands where they’re resting on his knees.

 

“Nothing. Just hurts,” Porthos says. “It’s fine, I’ll just sit for bit.”

 

“Ok.”

 

“In here. On me own,” Porthos says.

 

His sulk is rather ruined by Aramis and d’Artagnan opening the door and coming in on a waft of noise and laughter, bags of presents and cookies in their hands, the rest of the stuff from the car. d’Artagnan gets stuck in under the tree setting out the gifts and Aramis crouches by Porthos, kissing the back of his hand on the arm of the chair. He has paracetamol and a super soft cushion to support Porthos’s ankle. He also has chocolate coins. Flea comes in too with a glass of wine and a plate of snacks, from Marie-Cessette apparently. Then Charon. Everyone kind of trickles in and then Marie-Cessette pushes in too with Ralph on her hip, pushing Luc ahead of her and over to the upright piano. It’s worn and old, all her kids have played it, none of them very patiently or beautifully. Luc sits down with a teenager’s grumpiness and thunks away until Marie-Anne kicks him.

 

“We’re going to sing carols,” Marie-Cessette announces. “We’ll start with in the bleak midwinter. That is Porthos’s favourite whatever he might say to contrary.”

 

Luc, it turns out, can play the piano quite beautifully. They sing the Harold Darke alternative. Athos gets to his feet to sing, he knows the songs mostly from Porthos because Porthos sings them all through November and December most years. Porthos’s family all know the carols, from school and church and things like this, Athos knows that all the children used to sing at home around Christmas time. It sounds lovely, the room small but not awful for acoustics. The piano’s in tune and reminds them when they need it, guides them. Sheets of music are passed around with words as they sing. Flea has a wonderful voice, a rich alto, and Marie-Cessette sings like she’s been trained. Someone tugs on Athos’s hand and Athos looks at Aramis, who’s looking up at him, eyes bright. Aramis tips his head to Porthos, and Athos smiles, and nods. Porthos is not singing and he’s still sulking but he’s moving with their music, and his eyes slowly close, his mouth opening, and then he’s singing, too. d’Artagnan’s sat against his good leg, singing quietly, head on Porthos’s knee.

 

The song ends and silence falls, the piano quieting, all of them breathing together. The air settles and then Flea starts up with In Dolci Jubilo and Luc starts up and the rest of them fling themselves into it, Porthos loud with them this time from the start. He looks up at Athos and smiles at him, all warmth and gratitude as if this is Athos’s doing. Athos just smiles back, because it was a bit. His and Aramis and d’Artagnan and Marie-Cessette. They all know Porthos loves to sing and loves them singing. The music fills Athos up and he keeps on watching Porthos, loving him so much. Later, Pauline arrives with her husband and child, kissing Aramis and embracing him and laughing and then joining them for another round of carols, and Alaman and Samara head off. Agnes comes with Henry, and Thérèse, Alice. All of Porthos’s family coming and going, bustling around, opening gifts, eating, stopping to give Porthos food and presents and laughing with him, hugging him and showering him in affection and joy to see him. He’s sleepy and happy when they get him out to the car later, the path gritted now, escorted by Flea and Charon. They were with Marie-Cessette for longest and really grew up with Porthos. They both hug him and help Athos and Aramis pack the boot of the car, d’Artagnan sitting with Porthos.

 

When they get back home Porthos is a bit gloomy again, too tired to stay longer but not interested in coming home. He crutches up the path and inside and gapes. The house is full of the smell of cooking, music on the radio, voices. Athos grins.

 

“Constance and Sylvie are here,” Aramis says. “They’re coming out to help me, later, and I invited them to eat here with us before hand.”

 

d’Artagnan pushes through to go greet Constance and Athos, after ensuring Porthos is happy, rushes off to Sylvie, getting swept up in her arms and embraced, her hair soft against his cheek and her skin silk under his lips. She tugs him so she can kiss him properly, laughing against him, soft and warm and lovely.

 

“Do I get a hello too?” Constance asks. “Or just my girlfriend?”

 

“Hi Constance,” Athos says, already kissing Sylvie again.

 

“I’ll go see Porthos then,” Constance says.

 

Athos and Sylvie eventually go through to the livingroom, leaving d’Artagnan to cook. Why it’s d’Artagnan who always gets stuck cooking Christmas dinner none of them know but he seems to enjoy it. He makes it for supper time, after they’ve had the morning here and then time with Porthos’s family, there are gifts and then pasta bake for dinner, along with any left overs from latkes, doughnuts for dessert, the last trappings of Hanukkah. This year Constance and Sylvie have made some rolls and got the sauce started so he's got less to do. Athos sits on the floor between Sylvie’s legs and watches Aramis and Porthos opening gifts. There are some for Sylvie as well, Constance usually gets hers other times she doesn’t like celebrating Christmas much. Sylvie’s mother was Muslim but she always celebrated Christmas so she gets her presents on Christmas but Hubert gives her something on Eid too and tells her about those festivals.

 

In the late afternoon Aramis, Constance and Sylvie head out to the church. There’s been food for the homeless there all day, Aramis goes for the last leg but long ago passed on the responsibility for most of it to other people. He likes to help tidying up at the end and he’ll probably be singing more carols and giving out mince pies and left overs, chatting to the guests, for hours. d’Artagnan and Porthos slump on the sofa watching shitty Christmas TV and Athos tidies up a bit and has some time to himself in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and the book d’Artagnan gave him as one of his hanukkah presents. d’Artagnan wanders in for food and with the news Porthos has gone upstairs. Athos follows Porthos, finding him in bed, and joins him, naked, hopeful.

 

“I’m not having more sex,” Porthos grumbles, face in a pillow.

 

Athos tuts and makes him lie properly so they can elevate his ankle, then curls up on Porthos’s chest.

 

“Ok,” Athos says. He stretches a little and presses his lips against Porthos’s skin, traces patterns on Porthos’s stomach with his fingers, rubs gently with a thumb. “No sex.”

 

“Minx,” Porthos mutters.

 

“Did you have a nice Christmas?”

 

“Yeah. Thank you, and I know it was the others too but thank you,” Porthos says. “I’ve thanked them and they accepted graciously.”

 

“Well,” Athos says, but can’t think of anything.

 

“Saved Christmas for me,” Porthos says, nuzzling into Athos’s hair.

 

Athos doesn’t particularly want sex, anymore. He just wants to stay curled here and be nuzzled and held and to hum against Porthos’s shoulder and breathe with him, be with him. d’Artagnan comes up and curls behind Athos, arm right over him to hold Porthos’s hand, muttering about what he was reading on his phone, the TV, something about a dog Athos isn’t really listening, and that’s good, too. And then Aramis comes home flushed pink from the cold, fitting into his space the other side of Porthos, so they’re all around him. Porthos whispers something.

 

“Mm?” Aramis murmurs, pressing a fond kiss to Porthos’s cheek.

 

“Happy Christmas,” Porthos says. “I said I love you.”

 

“Oh. I love you,” Aramis says, and Athos and d’Artagnan mumble their agreement.

  



End file.
